


This Is Not The End

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 00:13:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6063496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon knew it when Illya had called him that night he was not going to like what his partner was going to tell him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is Not The End

Napoleon’s grip on the steering wheel of his car tightens as he drives through the night. His fingers are shaking slightly and he cannot figure out the reason why he is feeling so tensed.

Deep down, Napoleon knows something is wrong when he had received the unexpected call from Illya earlier. The Russian had sounded serious on the telephone, wanting them to meet at the park nearby his apartment. Normally, Illya would come over to his place or would ask Napoleon over to his own if anything serious crept up. So what was so different this time around that he had suggested meeting at the park instead?

_‘Cowboy, I need to see you. Need to meet you at the park near my apartment.’_

 The way he had not said anything more. The way he had been so short. The way Illya’s voice had been firm and curt, Napoleon has a feeling this meeting with Illya would change something, somehow, and it is making him feel very uneasy. And worried.

 The drive down to the park had been unusually long, even if Napoleon feels like he had broken every rule trying to get to his destination in record time. By the time he does get there, his mind has almost shut down after exhausting every possible thing Illya wants to say to him.

Once the car is parked at a nearby curb, Napoleon walks over towards one of the empty benches placed along the pavement of the park and then he sees Illya standing there, leaning against the banister, staring down into the depths of the dark water of the lake where the park overlooked. His partner is in his usual getup, his favourite jacket and his black turtleneck shirt, with his flat cap on, and he seems to be a thousand miles away from where he is and Napoleon feels his heart stop for a moment, his fears intensifying. The slight rain that has started to fall seem like an ominous warning as well.

 “Peril,” Napoleon greets him, and even though his voice isn’t loud, Illya had heard him and his head jerks up, turning to look at his partner. And just as fast, he casts his eyes back down after a brief moment of eye contact.

Napoleon strides over, stopping a couple of feet away from the Russian, at a so-called safe distance. He does not try to get any closer, does not know why. Not because they are standing out there in the open, which they have done numerous times before during missions and even during their down time, but Napoleon feels hesitance this time around because he has a feeling that it would be ‘wrong’ to step any closer. Something is very off with the whole situation. He decides to cut straight to the case.

 “What is it? What’s so urgent that it couldn’t wait till tomorrow?” 

Illya looks uneasy for a moment. Or rather more uneasy than he had looked. He runs one hand along the banister, seemingly deep in thought.

 “I do not know how to say this, but—” he says eventually, eyes still glued to the water below.

 “But what? What is it? What’s happened?” Napoleon asks, wanting to get it over with. The longer they stand there, the worse his gut feeling is getting. He wraps his coat tighter around his body, ignores the pelting raindrops that are starting to fall harder. 

“Peril?” he adds, almost pleadingly, when the Russian does not respond.

 “I got some news from Waverly just now,” Illya finally mutters and Napoleon half relaxed, half got a bit more worried. 

The news obviously does not seem to be a good one, which could only mean it is going to be a bad one. But it couldn’t affect him, could it? Would it? What news had Waverly given Illya that was so bad it had prompted him to call Napoleon in the middle of the night? With that look on his face, Napoleon is assuming the worse. 

He tries again to rack his brain and figures it could not be regarding a mission. Waverly would have called him and Gaby as well, and Illya would not look like something is troubling the living daylights out of him.

“Not making this any easier on me if you’re just going to stand there in silence. You know I’m not a mind reader,” Napoleon says, the tension in his voice palpable. His heart is beating so fast, the sensation of nerves almost dizzying, Napoleon wonders how he is still standing. 

“Illya?”

 Illya sighs at the sound of his name before taking a step back from the banister and stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He still averts Napoleon’s eyes. 

  “KGB. They want me back, and I need to leave. Tonight. They are waiting for me at airport,” he says simply.

Napoleon is stumped. “What? Now? Like right now?” 

Illya nods. “Yes.”

Hearing that, Napoleon stares at him, utterly and completely stunned into silence. His face paled like all the blood in him had been drained out. 

After almost a year with UNCLE, he thought there’s no way their former handlers would meddle into their lives but this is the KGB and Napoleon had underestimated what they would do, what they still could do, and now, they want to take Illya away from UNCLE, away from him.

 And then, as the news sink in, it hits him. Like a ton of bricks. Even though Illya has not said a word about it before, he knows what he is going to say next.

 “Solo, I–” the Russian begins but Napoleon stops before he could continue. 

“Don’t, Illya. Don’t say it. You don’t have to,” he says, voice surprisingly steady.

 And then, for the first time that evening, their eyes really meet and Napoleon is sure his heart is going to break right there. In the dark depths of Illya’s blue eyes, he sees so much. Sadness, heartache, pain, and worse of all to his horror, because the timing is absolutely horrendous, he sees _love_. All the time what was between them had only been in his mind. Words had never been spoken. But Napoleon is seeing it now as clear as day. And he wants to take all of those things he sees in Illya's eyes away from him, except for the love. 

But love is the one making it hurt the most.

Love is the cause of the pain.

It would not be all that painful if love wasn’t in the equation but that particular emotion is embedded deep within them from the start even if it something they have never mentioned to the other.

 “Isn’t there something we can do?” Napoleon murmurs after a moment of silence, tries his best to maintain his composure.

Illya shakes his head.

  “Not at the moment. I already talked to Waverly. He is trying to help work things out but for now, I will follow orders,” Illya replies quickly, trying desperately to ignore the slightly blurry vision of his eyes. 

“So that’s it? You’ll just leave?” Napoleon says with a voice hardly above a whisper, unable to believe the entire thing is happening. 

“For now, yes.”

The American then sits on the bench and tries to calm his racing heart. To be honest, he is surprised this thing had not happened earlier. He is surprised they had held out for as long as they had. But he cannot give Illya up without a fight, especially not to the KGB. Napoleon worries what they will do to his partner once they get a hold of him. What would Illya's punishment be for not following their orders? What they had done is not something the Russians would easily forget. Napoleon would rather he receive the brunt of it because it had been his idea to burn the disc, not Illya's. Illya would have probably followed through Oleg's orders to kill him. 

“Look, maybe I can work something out. Maybe the CIA could take me instead of you going to the KGB. Sort of a compromise with UNCLE and…”

 “Don’t say that,” the Russian pleads but Napoleon shakes his head again.  

“We can give it a try? We can bargain with them. I can talk to Waverly. If they’re doing this because of what we’d done, it should be me that they take, not you. I can’t...”

“No, Cowboy. CIA doesn’t want you. And not KGB either. They have not asked for you and you should be glad. Besides, what we did then, it was together. It’s not on you alone.”

“Peril.”

“Solo, please.”

Illya never begs, but, this time, he does. Begs for Napoleon to let it go, to let him go. He then tries again, slowly walks towards his partner, hoping he will relent.

“This is temporary. Waverly is helping me. He tells me this.”

Napoleon scoffs at the idea, like he is angry with Waverly for not trying hard enough to keep Illya. 

“You trust him too much.”

“Maybe I do. But is better than nothing, better than a permanent goodbye.”

“But you don’t really know that, do you?” the American asks, a question that needs no answer for he knows it would be dangerous to hope too much. 

“No, I do not know it but I believe it.”

Napoleon sighs. “And if it is not? If they take you away for good? What then?”

“I do not take it that far.”

“Illya...” 

They look at each other for several painful moments, Illya not backing down from his belief that he would come back to UNCLE, and Napoleon's fear that he would lose Illya for good, until the American couldn’t take it anymore and tears his gaze away. For some reason, he suddenly does not want Illya to see the effect the news is having on him.

 But before he has time to pull himself together, Illya, being the braver of the two, closes the distance between them and pulls him to his feet before wrapping his arms tight around him.

 They stand there for God knows how long, embracing each other like brothers, friends, lovers. And with every passing moment, the pain Napoleon is feeling increases dangerously. He feels like he couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t feel anything at all except the horrifying ache inside him, more painful than Rudi’s shock could ever do. He clenches his eyes shut, trying to block out what Illya had told him. No. This isn’t happening. This is a dream. A nightmare. And he would wake up tomorrow and find that everything is back to normal. That nothing has changed. That Illya would still be with them, with him.  

But, of course, he could do none of that. This is the reality and he could not do anything to change it.

 He almost grabbed hold of Illya’s arms when he thinks his partner is trying to pull away. But Illya does not pull away, merely moves to lean his forehead against Napoleon’s. Their breaths mingle, and Napoleon thinks he is going to break down, the knowledge that this is it. This is the end of sort of a dream world. A dream world that had lasted long enough.

 “Cowboy,” Illya whispers, his voice cracking. Napoleon part his lips to say something but he couldn’t. He does not trust his voice. He knows it would break if he tries.

“You give me something, Solo. Make me learn new things. Make me feel things. And because of this, I believe I will come back. This is not the end.”

 Napoleon nods, not able to look at him, not wanting to refute Illya. He understands, really he does. Even if they have never said anything to each other before, Napoleon knows what he feels for Illya and he knows Illya feels the same as well.

“I must go,” the Russian mutters, but Napoleon holds on to his wrists.  

“Please, Illya. Just, please…wait,” he says, trying hard to hold back the choking sob that threatens to escape his throat.

He opens his eyes, looking into Illya’s with his eyelashes caught in the rain and it only takes that one moment, the eye contact he’s been trying to avoid to make him feel worse than he had ever felt, worse than when he had first picked up Illya’s call, had first felt worry when Illya had said they needed to meet.

“Cowboy…” Illya says again, the pain, too, evident in his voice. “We should not do this.”

Napoleon only shakes his head. 

“Please, I know that we’ve never…but just let me,” Napoleon says. 

Slowly, he runs a thumb against his partner’s cheek, brushes away the drops of rain on his face, and then Napoleon smiles, almost like a pained expression. Illya does not object when he leans in, touching his lips gently with his own. And Napoleon tries desperately to savour the feeling, the taste, everything. He needs to lock the memories into his heart. He needs them to stay there forever. To remind him of what he once had but which is now being taken away from him, maybe, because of things he couldn’t control, because of things they did not say. He needs this. Just in case.  

As Napoleon deepens the kiss, Illya could taste the salt from tears. He is not sure whether it is his own or Napoleon’s, but it adds bitterness to the already building pain in his chest. He clenches his eyes shut to stop the agony he is feeling.

“Good thing about you leaving is I get to do this without getting punched in the face…” Napoleon says, tries to make light of the situation despite the obvious tremor in his voice. “Like a goodbye kiss.”

 “Not really a goodbye, Cowboy,” Illya cuts him off like a reminder and then,  “I will miss you,” he murmurs against his partner’s lips. “Even if sometimes you infuriate me so much. But, remember, this is not the end.”

The rain which is pouring harder now is soaking them both to the skin, but they are oblivious to that fact, oblivious to everything that surrounds them because what matters at the moment for both of them is being there and then. Napoleon wants to say he is sorry for not being able to do anything else. He wants to say he understands, even though he doesn’t. In the end, he only lets out a pained chuckle, the only thing he could do, trying his best to stay positive. 

“I hope so, Peril.”

And with that, the two of them break apart reluctantly for the last time, Napoleon placing a kiss on Illya’s forehead before they shake hands and each walking their separate ways. Napoleon turns back to watch Illya go, before he disappears around the curb and he gets into his car, sinks into the seat and leans his head hard against his steering wheel and hopes he will still get to see his Russian again.

 

***

 

“Kuryakin said you’re doing something about it. That you’re going to help him with his return to UNCLE.”

Gaby has never seen Napoleon so serious before, especially not when talking to Waverly and there is a kind of determination as he tries to get the facts straight from their superior. Gaby had been at a lost when Napoleon had told her about Illya. There had been no warning signs, no indication that the KGB had wanted him back. When Napoleon had broken the news, she was left almost speechless. 

And now there they are in Waverly’s room, demanding some kind of explanation about their partner. They had grown too fond of Illya, they had formed a formidable team and to think UNCLE is letting him go without a fight, disturbs Gaby immensely.

“I did tell that to Kuryakin and yes, Solo, we are working on ways to get him back. But this will require patience and perseverance and you will just have to trust me on this.”

Napoleon does not look happy. He looks angry and frustrated, upset that he could not do anything at all to help his partner. And Gaby never thought the American would be so crestfallen at losing Illya, the idea probably laughed at hard if she had told him this would happen ages ago when they had first met. But it is happening now and they have to leave everything at Waverly’s hands. They would just have to trust him on this.

“We’ll get Illya back,” Gaby says later as they lounged in Napoleon’s small office space. 

His eyes are glued to Illya’s empty desk, his head probably miles away from where he actually is.

“Are you hearing me, Solo?”

Napoleon hums. “Do you believe Waverly?”

“I’ve known him long enough to know that he’d honour his words. I trust him.”

“But that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t fail, that there’s still a possibility that his influence is not strong enough to get Illya back.”

Gaby understands what Napoleon is doing. He is trying to stay as pessimistic as he could, not wanting to get his hopes dashed because then, the pain would be too much to accept. But Gaby feels he is giving up too early on Illya’s prospect of returning.

Gaby grabs his hands in hers and squeezes them tight. “I believe Waverly will do everything that he can to get him back. You’re underestimating him.”

“Am trying to be realistic,” Napoleon retorted but Gaby is having none of his scepticism. 

“Don’t you want Illya back?”

Napoleon turns his head towards Gaby, and when she sees his eyes, she immediately senses the dread in the American. “You’re afraid you’re losing him for good.”

“Imagine me getting bent out of shape for my Russian partner,” Napoleon says with some sort of a broken sad laughter in his voice and then smiles at Gaby. “Would you believe that if I had told you this months ago?”

Gaby does not say anything, only pulls Napoleon into a tight hug.

“You boys are idiots, do you know that?” she murmurs into his hair as he rests his head on her shoulder later. And when he simply stays silent, with her fingers threading gently through his hair, Gaby continues to give her friend some hope, that all are not lost and that Illya will come back.

“You’ll get Illya back, Solo. I know you will.”

And even if it means the agony of waiting, Napoleon would hope and believe that Gaby is right and there is no need at all for his despair although he prepares himself for the worst, prepares himself to forget.

But days soon turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and yet, there is still no news on Illya. The possibility of him returning is probably turning to naught and Napoleon starts to put into effect his attempts at trying to block Illya from his thoughts. To make that possible, he takes in every mission Waverly throws his way, works non-stop, drags Gaby around, whenever possible, on his forlorn depressing journey, which ultimately worries her to a hilt. 

One day, during a temporary break from their constant assignments, Gaby hears something which excites her but when she shares the news with Napoleon, his surprising lukewarm response disappoints her. 

“Waverly is off to Moscow. Says he will back by the end of the week. Did you not hear what I’d just said?”

Napoleon answers Gaby but does not look up from his stack of paperwork on his desk. “Yes, I did.”

“Why aren’t you more happy to hear this?” she asks, snapping her fingers in front of his face until the American gives in and shrugs.

“It’s nothing unusual. Waverly always goes on trips.”

“But he went to Moscow. Maybe it has something to do with Illya.”

“Or maybe it doesn’t,” Napoleon dismisses Gaby. 

Her eyes are glued to his and Napoleon could see the disappointment on her face. 

“Illya would not act this way if it was the other way around. He would not give up on you the way you’re giving up on him, Solo.”

Napoleon takes in a long deep breath hearing Gaby’s scathing words. The truth hurts him more than anything. If indeed it had been him that was taken away from UNCLE, Napoleon could not imagine what Illya would do. He probably would have gone berserk, or would have held Waverly at gunpoint to ensure it would never happen. That is the Illya he knows. Napoleon on the other hand had failed him, had simply let him leave. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters after a while and quirks a sad smile at Gaby. “It’s just that I don’t want to hope, because it gets worse each and every time it comes to nothing. And it’s much better this way, Gaby. Definitely much better.”

The entire thing is hurting Napoleon more than she can imagine, and realising she probably had pushed it too far, Gaby quickly moves around him, wraps her arms around Napoleon’s shoulder and murmurs in his ear. “I miss him too. But I really believe he’ll come back.”

Napoleon hums quietly, wishes he could share Gaby’s optimism for his had wilted away too much. 

 

***

 

Napoleon had just arrived home, had just dumped his suitcase on the floor of his living room, when he hears that knock on his door. 

Surprised at to whom could have possibly known that he was back from Marseille, UNCLE’s latest mission which had given him a couple of sore bruises on his ribs, with Gaby getting a slight bullet graze on her thigh as well, which thankfully was quickly dealt with, he opens the door tentatively with his other hand ready on his gun still in his holster, and is absolutely gobsmacked to see the person that is standing right in front of him.

“Illya,” he gasps, eyes wide with surprise. His hands immediately drop to his sides. Napoleon could not believe his eyes. And before he could react, Illya is already pushing him in, kicks the door closed with his heel. 

“Cowboy, I’ve missed you so much,” he whispers hoarsely in Napoleon’s ear, hands gripping his arms tight.

Napoleon tries to reply, tries to react through the blur in his mind, but he couldn’t find his voice. The sight of Illya, which he totally had not expected, and then saying words like that to him is making him feel lightheaded. He probably is dreaming for all he knows but the man who is holding him feels all too real for it not to be true.

“You’re back?” he croaks, finally finding his voice, feels himself tremble when his partner’s hand touches his cheek. “You’re okay?”

“I’m okay, Cowboy.”

“They didn't do anything to you?”

“I am fine. No need to worry.”

Napoleon tries to figure how long he had last seen Illya, since that day they had said their goodbyes by that park near Ilya’s place when Illya had promised him that he would return, despite Napoleon’s apprehensiveness. 

But his train of thoughts are cut off effectively when Illya’s lips brushes his and he parts his lips to let Illya in. That night, he had initiated the kiss. This time around, it is Illya. And Napoleon sighs against his lips, god knows how much he has missed those lips even though they had only kissed that one time, which had meant more than anything in Napoleon’s life, the act etched deep in his memory. He instinctively moans as Illya’s hands wrap tightly around his waist, holding him close. The kiss burns him.

“I told you I will come back.” 

“But when did you return? Waverly didn’t give me any warning, he didn't say anything,” Napoleon replies, his voice ragged against Illya’s mouth. 

“I arrived this afternoon,” Illya says while still holding his partner close. “Waverly said you and Gaby are gone on a mission. Will be back later tonight. Which is how I know you were back. I saw you but you did not see me at the stairs waiting for you.”

Illya kisses Napoleon again after he had finished his little explanation, then letting him go again to say, “You should check your stairs. Enemies can jump on you, catch you unaware.”

“Fuck, Illya. You’d just returned and you’re giving me a lecture? What are your priorities?” Napoleon says in a mock exasperated tone but there is a grin on his lips and that look, that boyish toothy grin look that never fails to make Illya’s heart do some crazy summersaults even if he had never admitted it out loud before. 

“I know my priorities, Solo.”

Then, with an act that surprises both Napoleon and himself, he roams one hand up and down Napoleon’s chest, and then that hand strays lower still until a touch at one particular spot makes Napoleon gasp. Illya’s eyes are staring right into Napoleon’s, his dark blue eyes entrancing his. 

“I’ve waited for this moment, to come back to you, Cowboy. I could not stop thinking about you.”

His hands are now deftly playing along the hem of Napoleon’s shirt and Napoleon has no power at all to say no to the Russian.

 

***

 

Napoleon closes his eyes and arches his neck as he feels Illya’s hot mouth trace a slow and sensual path from the tender skin on his jawline and neck before dragging those lips against his throat and further down along his chest. Those soft and warm lips are heaven. And he cannot believe they have never done this before.

“You have bruises. How did this happen?”

Napoleon assumes Illya had noticed his injury on the left hand side of his body, winces when Illya’s fingers skimmed too hard on it. 

“Cowboy?”

“Yesterday, in Marseille. We were escaping with the intel we needed but ran into a bit of a problem and that happened.”

Illya’s eyes are focused with worry as he traces Napoleon’s bruises gently. 

“Hey, Peril, I’ve suffered worse. That’s no big deal,” he then says, his fingers hooking Illya’s chin up so he could look at him in the eye. “I won’t break if you kiss me there.”

“You are careless American.”

“And you know that already, that’s nothing new. Just get on with the act.”

“You are careless and also demanding.”

Napoleon tries to smirk but when Illya continues his ministration down his body without giving him respite, he lets out a little sigh instead and his head drops back down on the pillow, savouring Illya’s deft touches.

“Fuck, I missed this,” he moans softly as Illya’s lips trail slowly across his chest, first taking his time with one nipple before turning his attention to the other delicious bud. He licks and sucks it into a hard nub, making Napoleon squirm and sigh. But what Napoleon had said somewhat distracted his concentration.

“Cowboy, we’ve never done this. How can you say you missed it?”

Illya has lifted his head from roaming Napoleon’s torso to look at the American with a rather confused look etched on his face.

“I’ve missed imagining it in my head,” Napoleon answers. Then something dawns on Illya, turning the confused look into a displeased one.

“You mean you stopped thinking about me.”

Napoleon realises Illya is getting it all wrong but he does not have time to explain what is lost in the Russian’s head. “Come here and just kiss me,” he murmurs, one hand coming up to curl around the Russian’s neck but Illya pulls back before Napoleon could achieve his goal.

“Illya? What?”

“Did you stop thinking about me? I was away five months. Did you start to forget, Cowboy?”

“What? No! No of course not, that’s not what I meant at all. You know it’s not.”

When Illya had gotten the news he would be returning to UNCLE, he had been anxious. Despite being grateful that Waverly had managed to secure his release from his former handlers, despite his longing of wanting to return which was all he could think about while he had been away, the prospect of meeting Napoleon again after being away for months had left him feeling a little bit paranoid that the American might have distanced himself from him, that Napoleon might have forgotten. Maybe what Napoleon had thought he felt for him was not as intense as Illya’s own feelings. 

“Illya? Are you with me?”

Napoleon’s voice pulls Illya back to the present, and one of his hand is on his cheek, caressing it slowly and he smiles that smile of his, that smile which almost always make Illya’s knees go a little weak, and that could send him crashing to the floor if he wants.

And that smile now turns into a pout and he looks too breathtakingly adorable for Illya to ignore so in the end he simply gives in and ignores the disturbing thought he had in his head. Leaning up once again, he kisses Napoleon hard until he is gasping for breath, making sure there is nothing at all for him too forget, and after tearing his lips away, Illya slowly drags his tongue downwards against Napoleon’s flat and hard belly and then, with the intent of driving his partner crazy, he dips and flicks his tongue into his navel. When the sound of Napoleon’s breathless gasps grow louder, Illya licks his way lower still, along the fine line of hair there and place soft feathery kisses around his most sensitive area, driving Napoleon almost mad.

“God, Illya, what did you learn while you’re away from me? You’re so damn good with the…ah! teasing.”

Illya smiles against his skin and then looks up at Napoleon, whose lips are parted and cheeks are flushed. His hands are gripping the bed sheet and Illya has to hold his hips to restrain him from thrusting and writhing too much.

“There is more that I am good at, Cowboy,” he mutters and strokes Napoleon’s now parted thighs gently, trying to soothe his frenzied nerve. 

And Illya, no matter how much self control he thinks he has, can’t help himself from leaving a trail of damp kisses along the inner side of Napoleon’s delicious thigh. He nips the tender skin, gives it little bites here and there, and Napoleon arches his body, desperate for Illya to move this along. He needs some kind of friction to relieve himself from the merciless teasing that Illya is subjecting him to.

But Illya, he is determined to prolong Napoleon’s suffering, continues to lick and nip at his groin and his arms are still restraining Napoleon’s hips from moving too much. And when he stops tentatively, Napoleon looks down to see Illya grinning up at him. His mouth is so close to where Napoleon really wants it to be. He lets his head fall back against the pillows and squirms when he feels Illya’s breath tickling his skin.

“I can’t keep up much longer if you keep doing that…” he groans.

“Cowboy, I haven’t even touched you yet,” Illya teases.

“Then…touch me… _please,_ ” Napoleon begs.

And Illya does just that. In fact, he does more than just touch. He licks, kisses, and sucks Napoleon into a frenzy, and all Napoleon could do is to surrender and relinquish all control to that wonderful mouth that is wrapped around his taught length. Illya works at him until he empties himself into him, into his hot and eager mouth. And then when Illya later moves inside him, they rise into a rhythmic climax together, before collapsing unto each other in a tangle of exhausted limbs. 

*** 

“I have missed you,” Illya murmurs in Napoleon’s ear. 

“We’re turning into sappy spies, aren’t we?” the American asks as he turns his head to face his partner who is now gazing intently at him, his arms flung protectively across his chest. 

“I am not sappy just because I say that to you.” 

Napoleon chuckles at Illya’s irritated look. The Russian does not do sappy and the idea simply irks him to no end. But he could not stay angry for too long, because soon Napoleon is already rolling on top of him, with his arms braced on either side of his head. 

“Somehow, I didn’t think that we will get to see each other again after you’d left.” 

“You did not have faith,” Illya mutters. Napoleon only shrugs. 

“But you can’t fault me, Illya. You didn’t give me any time to react to you leaving. You dropped me a fucking bomb. And the pain was just as bad as getting a bullet through the chest, maybe even worse.” 

Illya quickly hushes Napoleon with a passionate kiss on the lips. He then bites softly on his bottom lip that makes Napoleon moan slightly. 

“Do not say that. I do not like hearing it.” 

Napoleon nods and hides his face at the crook of Illya’s neck, taking in his scent and then presses his lips tenderly just underneath his ear. “Can I say I think I love you?” 

Without saying anything, Illya flips them around so now he is on top of the American. 

“You think? Or you know?” Illya asks, his voice serious. 

Napoleon eyes him for a moment, mulls the answer which he already knows all along. 

“I know. Of course, I know,” he murmurs. 

Sensing that Illya might need some kind of assurance, Napoleon tightens his arms around the Russian’s shoulder, smooths his hand up and down his back, before pressing his lips against his neck, feathering light kisses up and down that smooth expanse of skin reassuringly. 

“You believe me, don’t you, Peril?” 

Illya nods. Then Napoleon asks him a question that takes him aback completely. 

“Why do you like me?” 

“What?” 

“Answer the question, Illya. Why do you like me? I almost gave up on you when I thought you weren’t returning. I didn’t do much to stop you from leaving. If it had been me to leave, you would’ve—” 

“Shut up,” Illya stops him before Napoleon could rambled on. He cups the American’s face with both hands. 

“You are impossible man, Cowboy, you ask me something I cannot answer easily. But if you must know, you have irritating charm. Which annoys me that I can’t ignore it from the start. You do things that infuriate me and yet —” 

“And yet what?” 

“And yet I still want to do this.” 

Illya leans down and presses a kiss on Napoleon’s lips, kisses him like his life depends on it and the act soon grows into a heated mangling of tongues. The intense emotions are engulfing them again and soon both are lost in the overpowering feeling that both had missed so much during the time spent apart from each other as they let their mouths explore one another slowly and languidly. 

And soon, both bodies grow tense and tight with lust and love again and they come together with heat and passion, knowing this time, it is not a means to an ending. 

*** 

“I want to thank you, for bringing Kuryakin back. I didn’t think it would be possible at first but you proved me wrong.” 

Napoleon thanks Waverly the next day. He might have had his doubts on the man before but now he has to start regarding him differently. Obviously UNCLE is not like the CIA, like the men he used to work for. It had thrown him off a bit, to know how the people he works for could actually be trusted and be trusting in return. 

“I like to keep the three of you together, Solo. You’re my best agents for now. It’d be a shame to break such a team up, don’t you think?” 

“A damn shame indeed, Sir,” he answers as he smiles and shakes the Englishman’s hand. 

Expectations are a sort of binding. Previously having expectations only hurts him. Napoleon had taught himself everything he needs to know just to protect himself from things he does not have any control of. But now it looks like he would have to change his perspective. From working alone and now working with partners, with a particular Russian being his partner in every sense of the word, Napoleon realises after working with UNCLE, he would learn not to expect anything less from anyone anymore. 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I updated half of this story on my phone so any mistakes are mine.
> 
> 2\. I wanted to end this angsty but in the end I am a sucker for happy endings. Hope you like it! 
> 
> If you have any prompts for me, talk to me on Tumblr by the same name ;)


End file.
